


A Matter of Circumstance

by imthegalacticstarfish



Category: A Separate Peace - John Knowles
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is Gay, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships, M/M, Not Happy, because that doesn't happen in real life, no one's actually dating anyone, rip finny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 02:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18043982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imthegalacticstarfish/pseuds/imthegalacticstarfish
Summary: I don't know how to summarize this. It's an alternate ending to "A Separate Peace" by John Knowles. Well, Phineas still dies, but I tweaked it slightly. It's much better than I'm making it seem, so please read it. I hope you enjoy it!





	A Matter of Circumstance

When Dr. Stanpole told me that Finny had died, my heart stopped. Time stood still for what felt like a lifetime as I began to process it. Finny… _my_ _best pal Finny_ … dead? No. It just couldn’t be so. 

I never told him he was my best pal. Despite the fact that he declared me to be his best pal some time ago, on that stupid beach, I never returned the sentiment. I never said those three words back, the words that changed my entire life, and therefore, his.

I shook myself out of my thoughts, and looked up at Dr. Stanpole.

“The marrow of his bone…” He had died because the marrow of his bone flowed down his bloodstream to his heart.

* * *

I didn’t cry when I heard of Finny’s death. I didn’t even cry when watching him be lowered into his family’s burial ground outside of Boston. I could not escape the feeling that this was my funeral, and one does not cry in those circumstances.

* * *

The Far Common, not having the broken in essence of Devon, was donated to the war without a second thought.

In early June, I watched the war move in to occupy the building through the window in my room. There was the advance guard, consisting of a number of Jeeps, followed by heavy trucks, and behind them were the troops, all straggling in their rumpled uniforms, singing  _ Roll Out the Barrel _ .

Suddenly, as I stood by the window, I felt a presence behind me.

“Brinker.” He had stopped talking to me once Finny died, and I never questioned it. I had no need to. He was avoiding me because I was indirectly responsible for Finny’s death. It was too much for him to handle, and so he sought to stay away. Hell, it was hardly enough for me to handle, but I threw myself into my studies again, wanting to stray far away from the intrusive thoughts that haunted me at night as I stared at the empty bed of Finny.

“What’s that?” Brinker asked, unprompted, breaking the uncomfortable silence that fell over us after I acknowledged his presence. “What’s in those trucks?”

He was very soft spoken in this moment, not looking at me but instead at the trucks. It was just like Brinker to ask the one person he seemingly despised most about what was happening. He was always such a curious person.

“They look like sewing machines,” I responded, mulling over his decision to ask me, of all people, what the trucks possessed. It reminded me of a time, not one of innocence and naivety, we were much more mature than that, but a time of accusations and anger, of lies and secrecy. And it hit me, like a ton of bricks, that I was not alone in my guilt.

Phineas was never spoken of, though he was very present in every second of every day of our lives at Devon. It felt impossible to speak of him without seeming crazy, though I attempted to do just that with Brinker.

“You— when Finny— after Finny’s death, you stopped talking to me. We’re schoolmates. We know each other. We’ve  _ known _ each other. Why did you stop talking to me?”

The tables had turned, for I used to be the one who attempted to hid from Brinker’s piercing eyes. He lowered his gaze to ground, and, in an impossibly quiet voice, breathed out, “I did this to him.”

Eyes widening, I stumbled back and ungracefully caught myself against the wall behind me. This confirmed it: Brinker felt as though he was to blame for Finny’s death.  _ The marrow of his bone… _ Everyone knew how Finny died— he fell down the stairs, breaking his leg again, and when in surgery, the marrow of his bone flowed down his bloodstream and pierced his heart, killing him instantaneously. It was a matter of circumstance, and the odds did not happen to be in Finny’s favor.

“You did this to him.” Not a question, but an invitation for him to continue his train of thought.

“It was that damn investigation. If it wasn’t for my god awful idea to interrogate you and Phineas, he wouldn’t have fallen! Oh, I know it’s partly your fault too— I  _ know _ you made him fall off the branch, though your intentions are still unclear.

“I’m still to blame though. I could have waited until morning, or chosen for it to be somewhere else, or just kept to my  _ goddamn self _ . We wouldn’t… we wouldn’t be here, and…”

He was trembling, silent tears running down his face as he finally looked me in the eyes. I felt myself tearing up and letting myself cry for the first time since Dr. Stanpole told me that Finny was dead.  _ The marrow of his bone... _

“It’s all our faults, isn’t it?” I managed to get out, gasping as the loud truth left me breathless. “If it wasn’t for us, Finny would still be here.”

We broke down at that, even more so than before, and grabbed each other, holding on to what we found most familiar. We found ourselves on the floor after that, using each other to keep from falling onto our backs, and cried— no, laughed, or was it screamed? Who could tell anyway, and who could bother to care as we finally accepted the daunting reality of our lives.

* * *

You see, Phineas was one of a kind. He was the only one who was never afraid, the only one who never held any hatred for another being. Everyone else, always on the defensive, dedicating themselves to fighting their own enemies, could only dream of being like Finny. Finny, who loved and loved and loved, and who always had faith. Finny, who wore his heart on his sleeve and always forgave others. Finny, who forgave me.

I’d like to forgive myself too. Fifteen years, and I still believe I killed him. Or, maybe who killed him is irrelevant. Maybe it’s who weakened him when he was alive, not just in the physical sense, but in the mind as well. And I cannot shake the feeling that I won’t ever forgive myself, though I’ve matured greatly, and know that everyone else has forgiven me as well. The enemy of my war is still very much alive, and thriving, and I don’t believe my mind will ever reach a state of peace.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading it. feel free to leave a comment or something about what you think.


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